


Deus In Absentia

by LuxInvictus



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dark Fantasy, Demons, Fantasy Religious Angst, Gay Sex, Literally Three Drops, Lots of little Easter Eggs sprinkled throughout because I'm a dork, M/M, Magic, Mild Blood, Now it's, Ozqrow Secret Santa 2020, Porn With Plot, Remnant But Not The One We Know, Seriously all the plot is a setup to porn, Size Difference, This started out as PWP, Universe Alteration, Wizards, cloqwork, fantasy blasphemy, ozqrow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxInvictus/pseuds/LuxInvictus
Summary: Desperate and alone, Ozpin reaches out to the one person left who may be willing - and able - to help him in the seemingly unending war against Salem, the Witch of Evernight, and her dark forces. But what if that person is not exactly human, and Ozpin's reasons for this alliance are not entirely selfless?Or:Ozpin summons a demon to help him with the impossible task of defeating Salem. It goes better than he ever could have planned -- or hoped.
Relationships: Cloqwork - Relationship, Ozqrow, Qrow Branwen/Ozpin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 18





	Deus In Absentia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icibi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icibi/gifts).



> Happy Nondescript Winter Holiday, Icibue!
> 
> I was your Secret Santa for this year! This originally started as a PWP one shot, then my brain decided to add a semblance of a plot, and...yeah. This is the result.
> 
> The story is finished, I promise! I just need to edit the rest of the chapters into something worth reading because right now, it is an A+ mess. 
> 
> Prompt: Demon
> 
> [Please see end of chapter notes for any content warnings]

_A falling star fell from your heart_  
_And landed in my eyes_  
_I screamed aloud, as it tore through them_  
_And now it's left me blind_  
  
_The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out_  
_You left me in the dark_  
_No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight_  
_In the shadow of your heart_  
~ Florence + Machine, Cosmic Love

*

Heavy gray clouds scud across the broken face of the moon, just visible over the thick canopy of branches. Pausing a moment, Ozpin pulls out his little round pocket clock from its pouch on his belt and holds it up to catch what little is left of the light, its soft _tick tick tick_ almost deafening in the hush of the woods.

Twenty minutes to midnight.

A sharp ache settles low in his chest.

Tucking the tiny clock back into its pouch, he tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulders and plunges into the thicket of evergreens guarding the crumbling walls of the temple. Spiny branches clutch at his hair and satchel and robes as though trying to hold him back, push him away, keep him from doing what he means to do. How…fitting. Gritting his teeth, he shoulders through them toward the entrance, heedless of the scratches to his face and hands or the strands of silver and tufts of emerald green left in his wake. If he’s late by even one minute…Well. He’d rather not think about it.

Finally the trees surrender before him. Shadows heavy with the must of damp stone and earth swallow him as he steps through the broken archway, dirt and dead leaves crunching beneath the heels of his boots. An oak has forced its way through the cobblestone at the back of the sanctum, its thick boughs thrusting through a gaping hole in what’s left of the temple’s vaulted ceiling. Thin beams of moonlight stream down through the gaps between the branches, glinting off the shallow puddles in the grooves and cracks of the time-worn floor. Waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust (and counting every second it takes), Ozpin makes his way to the inner sanctum as soon as he can see well enough, the strap of his heavy satchel digging into his shoulder.

A wide, polished granite altar stretches across the very back. Wild foliage pushes through gaps in the stone at the base, choking the bottom and sides. An elegant, equal-armed cross adorns the front, its once vibrant gold nearly faded into obscurity. Aside from a thick coating of leaves and dust, the altar is in perfect condition.

The same, however, cannot be said for the statue looming behind and above it.

Ozpin immediately averts his gaze, swallowing harshly as he absently reaches up to fiddle with the brooch on his cloak — a twin of the cross on the altar. But the time has passed for second guessing himself; he must make preparations. He swipes his free arm across as much of the altar as he can reach to clear away the debris and then opens the satchel, removing the brass censer, silver chalice, steel dagger, and assorted candles with trembling hands.

The weight of the stone gaze above him is heavy on his shoulders.

Once everything is in place, he double checks his work against the instructions on his scroll and then rolls it back up, tucking it into his belt for easy consultation, and pulls out the pocket clock again to see how he’s doing on time.

Thirteen minutes to midnight.

Adrenaline thrills through Ozpin, setting his blood on fire even as his teeth chatter and his hands tremble around the little clock clutched tightly in his stiff, red fingers.

Ah. It would seem that the time has come to begin.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out slowly, breath billowing white before him in the near darkness of the temple. On this night of all nights, everything must be perfect, and to be perfect, he must be calm. Well. As calm as he can be when he’s about to—

 _Focus_ , he mentally chides himself. _Focus, or this will have all been for nothing_.

His chest tightens painfully, heart thrashing at the thought. Mistakes and failure are nothing new to him, of course — by now they are as constant of companions as his own shadow — but tonight, neither of them is an option he can live with.

Breathe. ( _There is no time_ ) Just breathe. In, and out. Again.

Slowly, slowly ( _too slowly_ ) his jangled nerves settle and his scudding pulse eases to a quick but even rhythm, and he feels ready to move forward with what will either be the biggest mistake of his life, or his greatest triumph. Only one man can determine the outcome, and that man is not Ozpin, High Wizard of Sanus though he may be.

Eleven minutes to midnight.

With a curt nod, he exchanges the little clock for his fire starter. Willing his hands into steady stillness, he strikes the flint against the steel once. Twice. A third time, and a spark ignites the charcoal disk in the brass censer. Once it’s glowing a deep, brilliant red ( _just like his eyes_ ), Ozpin sprinkles a generous pinch of incense on top. Thick streams of white smoke billow upward, the heady spice of sandalwood and frankincense blending easily with the earthy musk of the temple.

Resisting the urge to check the scroll again — he has read it so many times the steps of this ritual are now written on his heart, if only he would trust it — he summons a spark from the censer with a whispered spell and guides it toward the ring of thirteen evenly-spaced black candles that circle the sanctum from one corner of the altar steps to the other. One by one they ignite. A pale orange glow fills the temple and stark shadows leap to life on the walls, hands reaching out to each other, to him. Beckoning. Entwining. Writhing.

( _What would_ his _hands feel like if they_ —)

FOCUS. Time is of the essence, and he is steadily running out of it.

Clearing his throat, Ozpin gives his head a little shake to dispel the mesmerizing fantasies tempting his mind away from his task and turns to face the altar, raising both arms before him, palms up, as though preparing to give someone an embrace.  
  


“Oh come to me, come to me, dark one of misfortune,  
Lord of the tower and of the lightning that strikes it.  
Open the Abyss, and let the harbinger come forth.”  
  


Perhaps it’s simply his imagination, but the candles seem to burn taller and brighter at his words, and a fresh cloud of smoke swells from the censer in the shape of...well. A very comely and, ah, _well-endowed_ man. Ears burning — his imagination certainly is active tonight — he bites down on the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and retrieves his paint set from the satchel for arguably the most important part of the ritual: the seal. Without it, he may as well be setting up a romantic candlelight rendezvous for one. And if it goes poorly, he may as well snuff out the candles altogether and leave.

Supplies gathered, he kneels and starts drawing on an unbroken slab of stone a few feet in front of the oak. This time he allows himself the luxury of consulting the scroll with every stroke of the brush. Blood red for the long, hard lines of the ten-pointed star. The paint dries almost immediately, unforgiving of any mistakes his numb, trembling hands might make. Bone white for the soft curves of the six circles and their runes, five on every other point of the star and one in the very center of it. Painstaking seconds pass as he draws slowly, carefully, the cold of the cobblestone steadily seeping into his aching knees, fighting back the chills that wrack his body and threaten the integrity of his work. Jet black ( _just like his hair_ ) for the two concentric circles surrounding and completing it all. Once he finishes the last brush stroke, he squints between the parchment and his drawing. An exact replica. He can breathe again.

Tugging the satchel toward himself, he exchanges the brushes and glass paint jars for the offerings recommended by the scroll. Gingerly he places one on each of the six runes, exactly in the middle of each circle. A dried red rose, complete with thorns; next, a flask of aged whiskey; then a length of fine red wool fabric; a small scythe; a black feather; and finally, a small collection of metal cogs, sprockets, a crooked unequal armed cross, and other shiny trinkets in the center circle.

Pleased with his work, Ozpin rises painfully to his feet with the aid of a low-hanging tree branch, pausing a moment to rub the feeling back into his stiff knees. Now that the most difficult part of the ritual is complete, all that is left to do is officially invite the guest of honor himself. His breath hitches at the thought. Turning on his heel he heads back to the altar, blowing on his hands to warm them up as he mentally runs through a list of the next steps, eyes automatically following the upward drift of incense smoke to —

He lurches to a halt, hands curling into fists against his lips, stomach curdling. Ah. It would seem that he was wrong about the most difficult part of the ritual. Another mistake to add to his ever-growing collection.

Both hands missing, one antler gone, what’s left of the God of Light looms above him, stone face half obscured by moss, most of its features eroded by the unkindness of time. Behind it, tall narrow windows once resplendent with colorful stained glass stand empty save for tangled vines clinging to the crumbling stone and broken tracery.

He stares back, transfixed, unable to look away now that he has inadvertently broken his own taboo, the shattered echoes of a promise ringing in his heart.

_It is your destiny to defeat The Witch of Evernight and bring peace to this world, Ozpin. But have no fear, for in this task you will never be alone._

And yet here he stands, no one to help him lift the weight of his impossible burden. A litany of names and faces floods his mind, former allies who have long since abandoned him. Joined _her_ forces.

Died.

His throat closes, achingly tight. But tonight, he has no time for the all-too-familiar recitation of grievances. No. Tonight, he is finally doing something about them. Short of surrendering himself to Salem’s cruel mercies or giving up entirely, this is the only thing left that he can do. He should have done this ages ago, wanted to, but kept the blasphemous desire tucked away in the deepest part of his heart, daunted by the knowledge that his god would not approve.

Well. The wrath of an absent god is nothing to fear, and this crumbling thing before him is no god.

He tips up his chin and gazes back at the statue, fingers curling around the cross-shaped brooch. The beveled gold is cool and smooth against his skin. “Forgive me for what I must do,” he murmurs into the smoky silence.

The words ring as hollow in the sanctum as they do in his heart.

Taking a deep, quivering breath, Ozpin plucks the brooch from his cloak and lays it on top of the pile of baubles beside the other cross, the dark emerald in the center gleaming in the candlelight. For a heartbeat he stares down at it amongst the cogs and sprockets, fingers twitching at his sides. If he does this…there is no going back. Whatever the outcome, there is no going back. He will either lose everything, or gain everything.

His hands curl into loose fits. Jaw set, he spins on his heel and strides back toward the altar.

Midnight is calling, and he has a ritual to finish.

Banishing all other thoughts from his mind, he makes quick work of the remaining steps. A whispered spell, an elegant gesture, and a spark from the thirteenth black candle floats to his hand, blooming into a flame that hovers above his palm. Before it can burn him, he guides it to light the tall red candle at the very back of the altar.

“The lord of misfortune is powerful; the harbinger shall conquer.”

With the flame from the red candle, he lights a matching green one beside it.

“His power brings victory to his allies, and defeat to his enemies.”

Every flame in the temple gains at least an inch of height, sparking, burning twice as bright as before, and this time he knows it’s not simply his imagination.

Heartened that his invitation will at least not go unanswered, he whispers another spell, and through his cupped hands water falls from the air to fill the chalice. He takes a small sip, then pricks the soft meat of his thumb with the tip of the dagger and lets three drops of blood fall into the chalice, staining the clear water red. Once both have sufficiently mingled, he pours out a libation between the bulging roots of the oak, leaving nothing in the chalice but a few reddened drops.  
  


“Oh come to me, come to me, dark one of misfortune,  
Lord of the tower and of the lightning that strikes it.  
Open the Abyss, and let the harbinger come forth.”  
  


As the final words of the invocation fall from his lips, a scorching wind gusts through the temple like the breath of a dragon, snuffing out every candle all at once and plunging the room into darkness. He coughs in the smothering blanket of smoke, too much smoke for the candles alone to make, a shiver trembling down his spine despite the abrupt heat. He’s here. He _must_ be here. Ozpin squints into the temple for any sign of him, swishing his hand back and forth in front of his face in a vain attempt to dispel the smoke.

A prickling sensation at the back of his neck as the hairs there rise is the only warning he gets before lightning strikes the seal.

Ozpin flinches back, blinking harshly, the after image seared behind his eyelids. The stifling air coalesces around him, making him feel as though he were swimming through a pool of warm water, robes sticking to his suddenly sweat-slick skin. Salt bursts on his tongue, and all around him comes the sound of chains scraping across stone.

This is all…quite unexpected, not how it usually goes. Absently he rubs his hands along his arms, gaze darting about, looking for something, anything familiar as the dim light of the moon attempts to suffuse the smoky shadows. Perhaps he made another mistake? Mispronounced a word? Or — oh no. What if someone else —

Two glowing red eyes blaze from the shadows.

Ozpin’s heart nearly stops.

White fangs flash as a deep, gravelly voice says, “It’s good to see you again, Oz.”

**Author's Note:**

> CWs:
> 
> Mild blood  
> Religious angst of the fantasy variety  
> Fantasy religious blasphemy


End file.
